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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/24283819">jewellery</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/sunarists/pseuds/sunarists'>sunarists</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>The 100 (TV)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Ambiguous/Open Ending, Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Canon Compliant, Canon-Typical Violence, Character Study, Dubious Consent, Happy Ending, John Murphy-centric (The 100), M/M, Metaphors</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-05-21</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-05-21</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-03 01:40:44</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Teen And Up Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>3,894</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/24283819</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/sunarists/pseuds/sunarists</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>Murphy's always worn it.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Bellamy Blake/John Murphy</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>4</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>99</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>jewellery</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>i really tried with this one. it's been sitting in my drafts for months. i still hate it</p><p>cw: ontari and implied dubcon, canon compliant violence</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Murphy is seven years old when John Mbege gives him a gift. </p><p>"It's a friendship bracelet." Mbege explains to him, cheerful and bright and loud while Murphy, in stark contrast, isn't. "My mom taught me how to make them." </p><p>They're a pair, an inseparable duo, side by side as they walk through the Ark from school, their backpacks almost as big as them. Murphy takes it from him- the little piece of string, coloured blue and red in a pattern of knots and braids- blue for Mbege, red for Murphy, intertwined and interconnected so tightly that from a distance, it looks purple. </p><p>He doesn't really know <em>how </em>he knows he's red and Mbege is blue- it just clicks with him.</p><p>"I have a matching one." Mbege says proudly, holding his wrist up to the light. "Do you like it?" </p><p>Murphy's never worn a bracelet before. Mbege helps him tie it, strapping it around his wrist, not too tightly that it cuts off his circulation, but enough that it won't come off. </p><p>"It means we'll be friends forever!" Mbege cheers as he finishes the knot. It wraps around his wrist, the colors starkly contrasting Murphy's pale skin.</p><p>"Good." Murphy says tritely. "Friends forever. Thanks, Mbege." </p><p>And there, on that fateful day on the Ark when John Murphy and John Mbege, J.M. and J.M., were seven years old, Murphy gets his first piece of jewellery.</p><hr/><p>He's too sick to really comprehend his father clasping the chain around his neck- a Murphy heirloom, he thinks Alex Murphy calls it. It's a simple silver, chain after chain locking into each other. </p><p>Murphy doesn't understand that he's saying goodbye, as he dips in and out of consciousness, his head spinning and faintly, his mother is crying. He's hot, then he's cold, he's hungry then he's nauseous. His head spins over and over and over until he begins to get used to the constant movement of <em>everything. </em></p><p>"We'll get you better, John." His father says sadly from the doorway. "I love you." </p><p>His mother grabs at his shirt, begging him not to go, <em>please, </em>please don't go, I need you to stay, no, no <em>no. </em></p><p>Murphy is eleven when his father is floated, and he watches, his mouth open in a silent scream, as his father's body flows away from the ship. His fingers clutch at the chain around his neck, and he tightens it, the necklace pressing into his throat and cutting off his breathing. </p><p>Morbidly, he wonders if this is how his father feels. </p><hr/><p>Smoke billows into his eyes, but Murphy refuses to cry, even when his eyes sting, protesting and begging him to blink. He simply <em>can't, </em>watching the guard's office burn with a vile fascination, fire dancing onto the basic, protocol furniture, the man sitting at the centre of it screaming, pleading, begging Murphy for mercy. It's disgusting to watch- Murphy feels sick, the scent of burning flesh wafting into his nose, and he fights a gag. </p><p>His father would not be proud of him. It's the most miserable thing of all, Murphy thinks, as the flames sputter and spit, growing larger by the second. </p><p>The guards arrive not long after, and Murphy's already got his arms behind his back, sure to slip back into costume- cocky, angry and <em>fucked-up. </em>He smirks, wincing only slightly as he's tapped with the shock baton- a painful caress, he thinks, as he falls to his knees. </p><p>The click of handcuffs echo numbly through Murphy's mind, new bracelets to add to his collection. </p><hr/><p>"Float him!" </p><p>Murphy wants to scoff. This isn't floating. This isn't <em>discipline. </em></p><p>This is a <em>power </em>display. This is not the anarchy that Murphy had been dreaming of since Bellamy had approached him those days ago. Not the overthrow of the system he'd desperately wanted since he watched them float his father for trying to save his son.</p><p>His hands are bound with rope that chafes against his hands, moving the friendship bracelet that was fraying on his wrist back and forth. </p><p>It's almost ten years old. John Mbege wore it, even as he died. Murphy takes some comfort in the fact that Mbege took a little part of him to the afterlife.</p><p>Murphy grins- rather <em>attempts to, </em>because there's a dirty piece of fabric wrapped around his mouth in lieu of a gag. It's a smart decision, he thinks. He'd spit on them, if his tongue was free. </p><p>Bellamy Blake's eyes are cold, as he watches them- his <em>people- </em>put him on a crate. </p><p>This crate his is airlock, the lever that releases it, the only thing separating him from the endless expanse of space. </p><p>The red seatbelt tightens around Murphy's neck. It's not as gentle, not as kind as the chain his father had given him all those years ago, and he thinks a buckle makes for a strange charm, but a necklace is a necklace, so Murphy wears it. </p><p>Something flashes through Bellamy's brown eyes as he approaches the crate. Will he regret this? Will Murphy's death eat at him until he festers away with guilt, his own sky to carry? </p><p>Of course Bellamy would think himself as Atlas, as a <em>titan. </em>So powerful, so <em>strong. </em>Atlas got used to the weight of the sky.</p><p>He kicks the crate, and Murphy is strangled by his newest necklace. He kicks feebly, but the red polyester just chokes him more. The cold buckle digs into his skin, piercing. </p><p><em>A necklace is a necklace</em>, Murphy thinks, as dark spots dance across his visions like inverted stars. So he'll wear it. </p><hr/><p>The cuff around his ankle <em>hurts. </em>It's too tight, it digs into his achilles, rubbing his skin raw, and Murphy glares at it like he can will it to loosen.  </p><p>It doesn't.</p><p>"Fuck you." He spits at the Grounder. He only gets another cut to his chest, his skin melting hot as blood drips down his bare torso, soaking into the waistband of his tattered cargo pants. </p><p>Murphy's not ever been one for vanity, for narcissism. He keeps only his jewellery. But he wonders when he'll get a new pair of pants. Maybe a fresh shirt. </p><p>Strange, how what once he took for granted became an unattainable pleasure. </p><p>"How many people?" The Grounder snaps at him. </p><p>"Blow me, asshole." </p><p>The chain connected to the cuff rattles as he writhes in pain. Maybe the Grounder cut a little deeper than he was supposed to. </p><hr/><p>"I want you to <em>feel what I felt." </em></p><p>Murphy just wanted to give Bellamy some jewellery. After all, his gift for Murphy, that red seatbelt, had fit so perfectly around his neck- it was only polite. </p><p>He watches as Bellamy slowly, hesitantly, threads his head through the loop. He doesn't look like a villain, like Murphy had looked, while his people had cheered for his death. </p><p>Bellamy looked like a martyr, the light filtering through the dropship and around his head like a halo. </p><p>It <em>infuriates </em>Murphy. </p><p>It happens so fast- he shoots at the floor, Raven screams, the dropship is infiltrated, there's an explosion and he's <em>running. </em>As he turns back to the dropship, Bellamy stares, his head cocked to the side curiously. </p><p>After all, Murphy had just wanted to give him some jewellery. </p><hr/><p>Another day, another bracelet. </p><p>Arkadia is stupid, the Chancellor is stupid, Abby Griffin and Marcus Kane are stupid, and Murphy <em>hates </em>how the people that sent them down to die waltz the Ground like they own it. </p><p>They had let Jasper get speared. They had let Octavia almost become fish food. They had let them start a war with a people much deadlier than them. They had let a disease take over their people. </p><p>Endless suffering- the Ground was survivable, but <em>barely. </em></p><p>They had earned <em>nothing. </em></p><p>Murphy's hands are bound, and he sits on the cold metal floor of what used to be Alpha Station. He and Mbege must have walked the exact spot he was sitting in over a hundred times. </p><p>It makes him miserable, the memory of Mbege- he's reminded every time he looks at the faded colours adorning his wrist- blue for Mbege, red for Murphy. </p><p>Yin and yang. The calm before the storm. One did not go without the other, until they had to. </p><p>Bellamy and Finn approach him- Bellamy holds a knife. Dully, Murphy wonders if this is how he dies- bleeding out on the Alpha Station floor at the hand of Bellamy Blake, his life so slowly creeping and tangling with Murphy's like vines. </p><p>Instead, his bound hands are free. </p><p>Bellamy had broken his bracelet. </p><hr/><p>He doesn't like the Fleimkepa clothes, heavy on his shoulders and trapping heat and humidity in it. He's sweating like he's never sweat before, the warmth of Polis melting him slowly, bit by bit. </p><p>They're clean. He'll give it that. He shakes his sleeves a little, watching the brown fabric wiggle. </p><p>This is a survivors move, Murphy thinks, as Ontari's guards click a collar around his neck, clanking unceremoniously with his father's chain as it rests dully over his collarbones. His hands, another pair of handcuffs. </p><p>He feels as important as the browned paint on the wall, his pride is on the floor, <em>below </em>the floor.</p><p>It's all too familiar, he sighs, shaking his wrists pathetically. The joints are worn to the bone, skinny and chafing. String, rope, twine, metal. The bracelets are different each time. </p><p>He's tugged by the neck, and he stumbles, just barely avoiding falling to his knees. Ontari's dropped her shirt somewhere, pulling the chain harshly, cutting into the nape of Murphy's neck each time.</p><p>Murphy looks away, wanting to look at anything but Ontari and her cold eyes and bared teeth- is she trying to smile? It's anything but welcoming- it reads more as threatening.</p><p>He swallows, his stomach churning, and just hopes he gets to survive another day.</p><p>He's not sure if he likes jewellery anymore. </p><hr/><p>The Tower of Polis has a dungeon. It's disgusting, it's grimy, there's a century's worth of filth on the floor.</p><p>It's light years better than Ontari's chambers. Murphy's so glad to be stripped of the Fleimkepa robes, feeling more and more like himself in his dirty cotton and blood-soaked cargo pants. </p><p>He didn't feel much like John Murphy right now; the necklace Ontari gave him was his least favourite.</p><p>Another cuff around his ankle. He's not a fan of jewellery around the ankles- after all, they're just to be covered by big combat boots, too delicate to be traipsing the woods and fighting for your life. </p><p>It only reminds him of the Grounder camp. A chill runs up his spine at the memory, slow and painful. The cuts on his chest still open, sometimes- he's never had time to rest, since the Ark sent them to their grave. </p><p>He's not alone, in this dungeon- Indra, Pike, Kane and Bellamy Blake. </p><p>Murphy hates how his throat tightens, no need for a noose, at the sight of him- curls that never stay flat, no matter how dirty, freckles that show even through the blood painted on his skin, his brown eyes only darker and angrier every time he sees them. </p><p>Indra carves at the cuff stuck in the wall. Slowly and surely, back and forth. It's an awful way to break a bracelet, but Murphy supposes not everyone's as used to the jewellery as him.</p><p>"Octavia is dead." </p><p>It rings through the dungeon like a bell, echoing and bouncing off the stone walls.</p><p>
  <em>Octavia is dead. Octavia is dead. Octavia is dead.</em>
</p><p>Bellamy's face falls, falls, falls. Bellamy, who had given up the sun and all it's planets to take care of his sister. </p><p>If Octavia was the sun, Bellamy was the Earth, forever in her orbit, her gravity always keeping him to her. She was as much a lifeline to him as he was to her. </p><p>Murphy doesn't really know what Bellamy's feeling- none of them will. The only siblings the Ark had ever seen.</p><p>His wail fills the room, floating out of the dungeon and for all of Polis, all the world to hear. </p><p>Murphy's chain jangles- he's twitched, so tempted to move to him, help him. He sits instead, his fingers brushing loosely over the anklet that kept him grounded. </p><hr/><p>Murphy <em>hates </em>bracelets. He can't even look at the piece of string Mbege had so carefully cultivated for him without feeling sick. He's so sick of handcuffs, he's <em>so, so </em>sick of them. It rattles against the pole he's bound to as he throws himself forward. They're approaching Emori, Abby with a syringe of dark nightblood serum. It'll kill her, he <em>knows </em>it. She won't survive it, and the only living person that loves John Murphy will die. </p><p>"No!" He roars- the metal of the handcuffs has long since cut his arms, blood rolling down onto his hands and dripping to the floor. The red looks so much brighter, against the pale floor of the lab. "Let her <em>go.</em> I love her, Test me!"</p><p>Emori's scared- her eyes are wide, like a deer in the headlights, her breathing getting laboured as Abby walks towards her, each step sounding more like the hammer to the nail of her coffin. </p><p>"Fuck you." Murphy curses, looking directly at Clarke. "You'll never change." </p><p>He finds a morbid satisfaction at how she blanches, her eyes looking miserable. </p><p>A split second. </p><p>Clarke's grabbed the syringe from Abby, gasping as she stabs herself with it, the black blood flooding her veins. Abby destroys the ice chamber and Murphy is released from his newest bracelets. </p><p>He's bitter. </p><p>Not everybody can be essential personnel.</p><hr/><p>"John, John, John." </p><p>Emori sighs as they face each other on the main deck of the Go-Sci Ring. She looks so much happier, Murphy notes, healthier. Her cheeks are rounded, her eyes are bright. </p><p>"You have to let me go." She says sadly. "We're no good for each other- you know that." </p><p>Murphy bites his tongue, a snarky remark that's sure to send her in the other direction trapped in his mouth. He bites down even harder, and the familiar taste of metal floods his mouth.</p><p>"You're right." He says instead- a lie, a sour-tasting lie, but he knows, deep down, that she's making the smartest decision.</p><p>It hasn't been the same in a long time. </p><p>"I'll always love you." She says, and he watches as she unloops one of her leather cords from her pale neck, her mutated hand free of the glove when she manoeuvres the knot. Emori takes care in stringing it around his neck, tying it gingerly. Murphy lets her, his hands laying limply at his sides, his eyes devoid of emotion. The charm, a jade of some sort, is cold against his chest, lying below the chain that had belonged to his father. </p><p>"Just not the way you want me to." She finishes sadly, drawing her hands back. </p><p>"You're right." Murphy half-smiles, a quirk in his lip. "We'll still rob strangers, when we're back on the Ground?" </p><p>Emori's laughter is chiming, so beautiful and elegant, so different from who she is. Murphy's hand goes to the charm on his neck, smooth against calloused fingers. A gentle, delicate touch. It's a piece of Emori he'll always get to keep.</p><p>"Partner in crime." She giggles. "For life." </p><hr/><p>A shock collar. Murphy's so sick and <em>tired </em>of collars. They're not necklaces- too chunky, too tight, no breathing room. </p><p>Raven tinkers at their collars, flinching when she's unsure of each wire she cuts. Murphy glances around the room, McCreary's people, Diyoza's people, his people. </p><p>Murphy likes a bit of anarchy. He's always like a little chaos- it's just <em>familiar </em>to him. </p><p>They wait outside, as their quiet rebellion begins. Murphy picks up a rock, tossing it, catching it. It's hefty enough. </p><p>"Why do I always have to do everything myself?" He mumbles. The rock is rough against his tired hands. </p><p>He swings his arm back, then launches it. Perfect aim. A man's forehead is split open, and all hell breaks loose. </p><p>Murphy smiles, and his blue eyes look red as the dancing firelight reflects in them. </p><hr/><p>Murphy's never felt so <em>clean </em>before now. Daniel Lee is a man who takes care of his looks, who puts thick gel in his hair like his mother used to when he was a kid going to school on the Ark, who colour-coordinated his closet and wore nail polish and eyeliner. </p><p>Never would he have <em>dreamed </em>of playing castle on another planet, all those years ago, when John Mbege had made him a bracelet. Never would he have dreamed of being a <em>god. </em></p><p>His blue robes with the gold detail fit him snugly, soft against his body that was so used to knives and bullets. His skin, cleaned from blood, still pink from the hot shower he'd earlier exited. A looping blue tattoo curled around his cheeks and eye, not-quite-just-barely matching Emori's. </p><p>Murphy notes that his scars had been covered up with powders and creams. His neck, absent from the pink lashes left by a red seatbelt that would never quite go away. His wrists, so used to being dug into by handcuffs- no, <em>bracelets- </em>were bare, devoid of harm. His chest, the most scarred of all, was covered by the comfortable Prime clothing. </p><p>The robes are better than the ones Ontari had forced onto him and accordingly ripped off. </p><p>"Final touches." Emori murmurs. Emori's necklace and his father's chain, both laid between his collarbone, were hidden by the high collar of his shirt. Mbege's bracelet, faded of colour until it was a not-white, was tucked under his cuffs. Emori loops sparkling, gemstone inlaid necklaces, with links of gold and silver, around his neck, pressing them gently against his shirt for all to see. A headpiece, a bright lazuli stone, just under his hairline. His fingers are adorned with rings, thick and clunky and clumsy. He wonders if he'd even be able to pull a trigger. </p><p>It's not the type of jewellery he's used to, he muses to himself, looking in the mirror. It's not the <em>life </em>he's used to. </p><p>When they walk into the tavern, not too long after Murphy's stared himself down one more time in the mirror in his- no, <em>Daniel's </em>chambers, his heart aches as he watches his people, the people that he <em>loves, </em>bound and tied with jewellery so unlike his own, but so much like he's used to. </p><p>Bellamy Blake, gagged and bound, stares at him. His eyes are dead. </p><p>Murphy looks away sharply- he'll cut Bellamy's bracelets, just like he did for him all those years ago. </p><hr/><p>The people are safe. Murphy's hands, Daniel's rings, are stained with blood, the headpiece is crooked against his forehead, and his cape pools on the tavern floor somewhere, forgotten. Mbege's bracelet is bright against the pale skin of his forearms, his sleeves rolled up for business. </p><p>Daniel's necklaces weren't made for Murphy- he knows as soon as they break at the first pull, first pressure, clattering to the floor pathetically. Daniel Lee is not John Murphy- because John Murphy's leather cord and father's chain stay on his neck as he knocks a man unconscious, the rings coming back red, red, red. </p><p>John Murphy is not Daniel Lee- he is <em>stronger. </em>And if Daniel Lee is a god, than John Murphy must be a titan. </p><p>His attention flicks to Bellamy- <em>Atlas, </em>and the weight of his sky. Murphy and Emori took the weight for him, tonight, but sharing the sky is a little easier than holding it on your own. </p><p>He carefully ungags Bellamy, sure to not pull at the fabric too roughly. His brown eyes are no longer dead- they're bright, ambitious, angry, <em>hungry. </em>It's nostalgic, seeing him like this. </p><p>"Told you I had a plan." Murphy whispers, sawing through the binds. The bracelets. </p><p>Bellamy pulls the rings off of Murphy's fingers, his own hands turning red in the process. He doesn't mind- he's had blood there before. </p><p>"Okay." He says simply, letting the rings fall to the floor. </p><hr/><p>Sanctum is beautiful. Sanctum reminds Murphy of his first breath of Earth air. Sanctum reminds him of the animals he saw running free through crowded brush. Sanctum reminds him of the first time he saw a river, the first time he dipped his fingers in, the first time he flinched at how cold it was. </p><p>Sanctum is beautiful, and Murphy's glad they didn't ruin it. </p><p>The people seem to adapt surprisingly well to the deconstruction of a religion they've worshipped for a century- they go on with their day, the word "Prime" not wasted on another breath. </p><p>He climbs up the hill, far away from the palace, on the outskirts of the dome. His skin is sore and peeling from the two suns that don't ever see clouds, and he has to squint through the merciless light. </p><p>Sanctum is vibrant. It brings back the colour in Mbege's bracelet, blue and red. Red for Murphy, blue for Mbege. </p><p>Murphy thinks he understands why he's red now. </p><p>He's not alone, on this hill. Murphy's heart jumps to his throat, getting lodged there, behind his necklaces, as Bellamy Blake lies in private under the sun, his face cleared of stress and a faint smile playing at his lips. He won't burn, under the sun. Murphy doesn't need to worry.</p><p>Sanctum is peaceful. Murphy's not in danger anymore.</p><p>He turns away, to leave Bellamy to his self, but a cleared throat turns him back. Bellamy hasn't looked up, and Murphy was quiet, but you need skills for survival and <em>this </em>was just one of them. </p><p>"Gonna join me?" Bellamy asks, his eyes still closed. </p><p>A pause. Murphy doesn’t realise he's holding his breath until now.</p><p>"Since you asked so nicely." Murphy retorts- there's no bite, and he flops down onto soft grass. Distantly, birds chirp- that was something Murphy had loved about Earth, the sounds of nature in exchange for constant machine hum. </p><p>Bellamy props himself up, crossing his legs and facing Murphy like they were schoolchildren. He wears one of Gabriel's wool sweaters- a change from his battered leather jacket. It suits him. He looks warm, kind.</p><p>"How are you?" Bellamy asks. Long fingers pluck at the daisies in the grass- Murphy wonders why he's pulling them, killing them. </p><p>"Peachy." Murphy retorts. Bellamy ties one end of a daisy to the head of another, looping and knotting at them. </p><p>"I'm sorry." Bellamy murmurs, his attention still on the flowers. "You're not a traitor." </p><p>"I know." Murphy says simply. "It's okay." </p><p>"It's not." Bellamy sighs. The daisy chain is four flowers long now. Absently, Murphy wonders where he learned to do that. "It's not okay." </p><p>Murphy bites his lip. There's a lot he wants to say, to Bellamy Blake, but he'll wait. Maybe the next time they almost die- he won't ruin a perfectly good day on a perfectly good hill. </p><p>"I forgive you." Murphy mumbles. "I've been a traitor before." </p><p>Bellamy finishes his daisy chain, tying the last flower to the first. He places it on top of Murphy's head- he feels a little stupid, sitting like this with a flower crown, but he lets Bellamy adjust it till it sits on his head by itself. </p><p>"Before doesn't matter." Bellamy smiles, his eyes crinkling a little. "Not anymore." </p><p>Murphy touches the flower crown on his head gently. </p><p>He's always worn jewellery. </p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>im on twitter! talk w me @505daytime<br/>tumblr: oliivverwood</p><p>kudos and comments r appreciated xoxo</p></blockquote></div></div>
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